


Summer's Strife

by JenevaJensen



Series: The Beauty in Deadly Things [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Commitment, F/M, Family Drama, Goodbye Sex, Post - A Game of Thrones, Post-Canon, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-19 09:56:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20655320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenevaJensen/pseuds/JenevaJensen
Summary: Now wed, Arya travels north to explore the Lands of Always Winter with Jon while Gendry resumes his duties at Storm's End. But life in Westeros is never smooth sailing.





	1. Beyond the Wall

“I’m going to visit Jon,” Arya said by way of greeting as Gendry appeared in the doorway. She was stretched out on their bed, naked, feet in the air, pouring over a map with a scroll in her hand. Gendry thought he’d never get used to finding her openly waiting for him in his bed. He sat down and started unlacing his boots.

“Only a matter of time before you did,” he acknowledged, “You’ve seen everyone else in Westeros who matters. Wish I could go with you.”

“You’d want to?” she sounded curious, “After last time?”

“Don’t care much for the weather beyond The Wall, but I like Jon, the dead aren’t assembling, and you’re _my wife_,” he said the last words as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. 

“I am,” Arya said with satisfaction, cocking an eyebrow at him and lifting her backside into the air suggestively.

Gendry sucked in a breath, feeling all the blood in his body rush downwards. He cleared his throat. Arya’s eyes laughed at him from across the room. Still struggling with his bootlaces, he asked, “How long will you be gone? When do you think you’ll go?”

“Jon thinks some passes are opening now that—according to the Free Folk—haven’t been open in decades, maybe more than a century. We’ll have to stop in King’s Landing for supplies since Bran’s funding the expedition. I’m sending ravens to sort all that out tomorrow. We’ll sail to Jon’s settlement along the Antler River before trekking inland. Little danger of the sea freezing us in at the beginning of summer. Likely be leaving here in about a week? But I’ll be gone for seven, eight moons? Maybe longer? Depends what we find and whether summer holds. Unlike you, I’ve never been north of The Wall.” Gendry’s shadow loomed over her. Arya turned her chin over her shoulder to look at him. To her delight, he was naked. She shoved all the scrolls and papers in front of her off the bed onto the floor, and pulled a pillow under her hips. 

“Well pack warm,” he said, gaze hungry, prowling his way onto the bed and up her body, punctuating his words with kisses from her ankles to her tailbone, “You won’t be…sprawling…naked…up there…like you do here…even if it is…summer.” She sighed underneath him, warm and contented. He continued, now making his way up the line of her back from her tailbone to her neck, “And…whatever you do…sleep… with your knife. I need you…to fight off…any of those…wildling bastards…who think…they can…steal you…away…make you…their…spearwife.” She made an agreeable sound and he lowered his body on top of hers pressing her into the mattress. He threaded his fingers through hers and she crossed both sets of their arms under her chin, kissing his knuckles as she did so.

Arya parted her legs as he lifted his hips, “You’re _my_ wife,” Gendry asserted against her ear, pressing himself firmly between her legs. She took him inside easily, though he felt her breath gust across the hair of his arm as he bottomed out. He lay motionless on top of her, feeling her heartbeat under his own and their breaths synchronize. He nuzzled the join of her neck, his kiss unhurried. She was contained beneath him. He had captured her. For the moment she couldn’t go anywhere. She was his. But then she wriggled her backside enticingly underneath him, admonishing, “Then put your own spear to use, so I’m not tempted.” He flexed his hips slowly before pulling back nearly completely and then ramming himself home. She grunted. He repeated the motion slowly several times before increasing the speed of his thrusts. Arya bit her lip. She loved it when he took control like this. The bed creaked, thumping against the stone wall. She was panting against his arms, rolling her hips back to meet his, each time he retreated. He sped up then slowed down and pulled himself back until she was whimpering his name. He sank into her deeply and he felt her moan and the bite of her teeth into his forearm. Sinking his spear into her another dozen times he felt her clench around him again and he let himself go with a guttural shout.

Rolling off her, he collapsed against the pillows, a sheen of sweat across his chest. Arya turned to snuggle against him; there was blood on her mouth. Gendry’s eyes widened in surprise. Then he felt something running down his left wrist. He raised his arm, looking at it in shock. He’d felt her teeth, but she’d actually bitten him—had drawn blood. The wound was running freely. Arya hopped out of the bed and went immediately to the washstand, coming back with soapy water and dressings. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she took his arm into her lap and began cleaning and examining the wound. Gendry noticed her tongue, furtively tasting his blood from the corners of her mouth as she did so. “It doesn’t need stitching,” she sounded relieved, “I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“When a stag beds down with a wolf he’s bound to get bitten sometime,” he replied cheerfully, “It didn’t hurt at all while it was happening. But you’ve marked me, milady, I guess I’m yours.”

Arya snorted, “As if you weren’t before.” She’d finished dressing his arm and clambered back into the bed beside him, planting a kiss in the center of his chest as she snuggled close under his arm. “You’ll have to find a way to mark me next time. Fair’s fair.” 

His fingers brushed against her side, “You’ve got plenty of marks already. I won’t give you another. But I love each and every one of yours. They show what you’ve defeated and survived for us to be together. I’ll take that reminder each time you’re willing to share it.”

“So now this will show that you’ve survived me?” Arya asked impertinently.

Gendry laughed, “Only the gods know if I will survive you, milady.” His expression grew serious, “I’d rather not survive you, Arya, if I’m honest. The only thing worse than not knowing if you’re alive out there somewhere would be knowing for certain that you weren’t. I know I can survive the one—I’ve done it more than once, but the other…” She opened her mouth to reply, but he clapped his hand over her mouth so that he could continue. She looked up at him with ferocious eyes, which his own met with humour-tinged sincerity, “But…if _I_ survive _you_—no matter how awful I would find that—it would mean that _you’d_ never have to survive without _me_. I suspect the world wouldn’t like that much. So, I’ll try my best. Until the end of my days.” He took his hand away from her mouth, grinning at her.

Out of nowhere, a pillow walloped him in the chest. “Think pretty highly of yourself, don’t you, _my lord husband_?” Arya snarked. Straddling his legs, she continued, earnestly, “If you try to survive me, I promise that I’ll try to survive you. Until the end of my days.” He nodded up at her as she leaned into his lips once more. 

~~~~~~~

Waving her off was different this time: they’d had nearly a year together, they were wed, and she’d be able to send ravens from north of the wall. Gendry knew that his attention had been elsewhere ever since she’d arrived and it felt good to reengage with the projects that he’d set aside. 

They’d spoken about the girls before she left and Arya had cautioned him, “Fyffe’s getting spoilt. She’s easy to want to please—I’m guilty of it myself—but you’ve coddled her. Tytha was older and came with her own wounds, but Fyffe’s life has been easy and pampered. I’m not sorry for it, but she’s too fond of getting her own way. Watch that.” Gendry thought she was likely right. He met with Maester Brymar and Septa Alynne and devised a scheme to expose his youngest to the more difficult parts of existence—the parts he’d been shielding her from. She would start visiting the orphan houses of Storm’s End and preparing baskets for the sick. He also began, with some difficulty, sharing stories of what his early life had been. He’d glossed over that for so long. His mum exhausted and beaten down—though always kind to him; the constant gnawing hunger—both physical and emotional after her death; the conditions of his apprenticeship; bowls of brown and beatings until he’d learned how to hit harder in the streets. What it was like to be bought, sold and traded like chattel. He shared it all. Tytha had listened, her eyes sad but knowing. Fyffe had wept, begging not to hear any more. He had chosen not to say sweet words to comfort her. It was what made him. But she’d taken surprisingly well to her new duties. Septa Alynne said she’d entered the first orphan house apprehensively, then straightened her shoulders and in minutes she was snuggling and playing with the toddlers the same way she did Nymeria. She had always had a lot of love to share. When she’d returned to the Keep she’d gathered all the clothing she’d outgrown or didn’t wear from her own chamber and created bundles to send back. She thought they ought to have proper lessons too, she informed him one evening and Gendry had told her that if she wanted to organize such a project, she would have his full support. 

Tytha, meanwhile, had resumed riding and continued her training with the Master of Arms. She was growing stronger and more confident as well. She was circling the ring late one morning when she noticed that she had an audience: her grandfather had returned to Storm’s End. “Looking well, my girl,” Old Arlen said as she dismounted and ducked under the barriers to give him a hug. “Don’t imagine that you’ll want to leave with me this time any more than you did the last, but I thought I should look in just the same.”

She kissed his cheek saying, “I’m happy here, Grandfather, but I’m happy to see you too. Have you seen Mama?” 

He sighed. “She’s well enough. They mostly all are. But they’ve had some bad luck. Wanted to tell your Father. See if he could help. D’you think he’d see me?”  
Tytha’s stomach churned. “Bad luck?” she asked.

“Nothing for you to worry over. You should know you’ve got another brother. Name’s Gaelor. Your mum’s run ragged with all those young ones and you not there to help.” Tytha couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t her fault her mother kept having children. She’d have to ask someone—maybe Arya when she came back (Tytha thought Septa Alynne might be scandalized by the question) how one went about keeping it from happening. She understood, now, the process and she reasoned that her mother must find it as enjoyable as Arya claimed to, having five children to show for it. 

“Father’s in council, right now,” she said, returning to the question at hand, “But he’ll make himself available if I ask him to.” Wrapping her arm into his, they strode off together toward the Round Hall.

~~~~~~~

Gendry listened to Old Arlen, frowning. 

“The neighbours turned on them some, after the boy was found. Shunned them. Maegor can’t hire in help—and Axen’s the only one old enough to be of any use. Galla’s tied up with the three wee ones. I’m too old to help myself, but I thought, maybe, my lord, that you might have a solution.”

Gendry glanced at Tytha who was staring out the window, her face pale and blank. He cleared his throat. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said, standing, indicating that their interview was at an end. Old Arlen bowed his way out of the room. Gendry closed the door after him and turned to his daughter.

“Are you alright, Snowsquall? That was a lot to take in.” 

Tytha nodded, slowly. “He’s dead. Really dead, then?”

Gendry crossed the room and knelt beside her, “Apparently so,” he hesitated, “That means, that if you wanted to, you could go back and visit. See your mother. Spend some time with her and your brothers.” 

She shook her head. “No. I won’t ever go back there. I’m glad he’s dead. But the other boys who were with him? Much as I’d like to see Axen and Mama again: no.”

Her words brought Gendry some peace. He’d never had second thoughts about what he’d asked of Arya, but he was relieved by Tytha’s reaction. 

“I don’t have any power over holdings in The Reach,” he said, “But there might be an option somewhere in the Stormlands if they were willing to relocate. Not here at Storm’s End, but somewhere. I won’t leave the decision up to you, but I’d like you to help me decide if it’s something we should offer them. They’re your family too. And my lands are your lands.” He watched her ponder.

“Maegor works hard. He’d work as hard anywhere,” Tytha said at last, “Let’s look. We can find out what’s likely before making a decision or telling Grandfather.”

Gendry stood, patting her head, and she rose, wrapping her arms around his waist. “You’re the kindest Father there ever was,” she murmured. A lump came to Gendry’s throat. He wasn’t so sure about that: his choices and Arya’s actions conspired to create this situation; he felt that he should take some responsibility rectifying it. But he was touched that she thought so. They’d made such progress with one another in the past year. 

~~~~~~~

When Arya disembarked from the ship, in the bay at the mouth of the Antler River, she shivered. A Northern girl born and bred, she still found it chilly beyond The Wall in summer. She’d been in the south and on temperate seas for too long, she reflected. Jon met them as the boats came ashore and they’d fallen into one another’s arms in an embrace that lasted so long, the entire party had left them behind on the trek to Jon’s settlement, by the time they let each other go. 

Arya smiled up at him, face alight, eyes bright. “So, what’s west of Westeros, then?” he asked, his voice gruff but a light in his eyes that shone brighter than it had in years.

“Funnily enough…Westeros,” she replied, “I’ve had a trinket made to show you. It’s much smaller than the ones I gave to Bran and Sansa, but…” her hand crept to Needle’s hilt, “We both know that the best gifts aren’t always the largest.” A smile tugged at Jon’s cheek. He cupped a hand to her face, looking at her fondly before pulling her close so he could kiss her forehead. Leading his horse, they walked together, arm in arm. 

“And you got wed? Lady Baratheon?” Jon teased, rather incredulous.

Arya elbowed him in the ribs, and he chuckled. “When did that happen?” 

“He wanted it to happen the night your queen made him a lord.” Arya studied his face apprehensively as she alluded to Daenerys. 

Jon’s face did lose some colour, and he side-eyed his little sister. That was news to him. He’d known that Gendry and Arya had run into each other before Winterfell, but he hadn’t realized…, “Is that why he left?” Jon suddenly asked, putting pieces of the past together, “Why he left for Storm’s End instead of coming with us to fight Cersei? You refused him? Is that why _you_ left?”

“Not why I left Westeros—in the end, anyway. But the rest?” Arya nodded, elaborating, “At least, in part.”

Jon was studying her, “I knew your getting wed couldn’t just be Bran and Sansa playing game of thrones, you’d never agree to that.” He watched his sister smiling to herself beside him, her steps even, her calm, contented demeanor. He’d never seen her like this. The closest he could remember was when she was a careless hellion of a girl, but, even then, there had always been a layer of wild discontent simmering under the surface. She was herself now. She owned herself—was entirely at peace with herself. He wondered what that was like. “What made you change your mind?” he asked, gruffly, “You love him?”

She looked up at him tentatively, her words honest and thoughtful, “He’s the first person—other than you—who let me be exactly who I wanted to be and loved me because of who I am, not in spite of it. He’s a brave, bull-headed, big-hearted, idiot. And I loved him for a long time before I knew—or could accept—that I loved him.” 

Jon’s glaciered heart unfroze a little, watching his stubborn, closed-off, decided sister admit what she felt for her husband. He grinned, genuinely, at her wry expression, and bumped his shoulder against hers saying, “Aye? Well, _I_ always liked him. Confident. Strong. Dependable. Talented craftsman. Decent sense of humour.”

Arya smirked, “Did _you_ want to marry him? Sorry if I deprived you of that pleasure. He makes a very good husband.”

Jon laughed aloud, “I’m glad of it. But, please: no details. You’re my little sister.” 

Laughing outright at the expression on his face, Arya leaned her head against his shoulder and they walked on.

~~~~~~~

Arya watched Jon across the fire that evening, as he spoke in low tones with Tormund and the others who would be accompanying them on their journey further north. When silence fell, he tended to brood, but she saw one and then another wildling woman making it their business to refill his cup, their hands lingering on his shoulder, wrist, or arm as they did so. He wasn’t alone up here—or at least—he didn’t _need_ to be alone. She remembered what those years after losing everyone had felt like. She’d immured herself in Braavos and the House of Black and White trying to become no one. Jon had done the same in his retreat—or banishment—to the north. But, as she had done, he kept building himself a new pack: first the Night’s Watch, then the Free Folk. 

Tormund’s wife, Inghirt, sat down beside her and, with a flick of her head towards Jon, remarked, “He’s happy you’re here and the women know it. See them all trying to take advantage? Would be good for him if one of them succeeded.” Taken aback by the woman’s frankness, Arya chortled, looking up at Inghirt’s dancing eyes. The woman continued, “He’s a pretty one, your brother. Can’t help my own eyes seeing that. Tormund says he’s not a man for being alone, neither. Wouldn’t have guessed that by how he’s been here. But none of these will suit him.” She gestured dismissively at the other women, “Not bold enough for him—they’d all bend the knee to him too quick. He’s a man that likes kneeling, himself. Some do.” The woman’s insight staggered Arya. She’d never thought about relationships in quite that way. She thought of Gendry on his knees between her thighs, calling her ‘milady.’ She shivered. Some men liked to kneel, indeed.

~~~~~~~

Riding north, into the Frostfangs, they’d stopped at various camps and settlements, adding several adventurous wildlings to their party. One such was a brown-haired, amber-eyed woman called Enla Spearborn. Arya had taken one look at her and known her for a kindred spirit. She wasn’t overly talkative, but she enjoyed a joke, had a keen sense of the land, and she fought as though she had—in fact—been born with a spear in her hand. Pitting themselves against one another, the two women would spar each evening once they’d made camp, the others wagering on who would be the victor of the day. Subsiding beside the fire one night, more than a moon into their journey, Enla asked Arya, “If I stole your brother, would that make trouble with you?” Arya had choked on her drink and side-eyed the woman, disbelieving. She’d noticed the wildling men throwing admiring glances her own way, and had kept Gendry’s advice in mind, her weapons always ready. But she hadn’t realized that wildling women might also “steal” themselves a spouse. Enla was a good few years older than Jon, but she’d seen him chatting with her companionably enough after some of their evening bouts. She could tell he admired her.

“Is it usual to ask?” Arya wondered.

Enla shook her head, “No. But you southerners do things different. And I don’t want trouble with _you_.”

Arya acknowledged the compliment with a nod of her head, and shrugged saying, “I don’t know how receptive he’ll be. Why do you want him?” She couldn’t help being curious.

“Survived the White Walkers and deadmen with you south of the wall years ago. He’s brave, strong, a fighter. Doesn’t give up neither. Even when he’s sullen he makes people like him—makes them work together. And he’s the prettiest son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever seen. What woman wouldn’t want him warming her furs? He needs a reason. I’d like to give him one.”

As reasons for wanting a man went, Arya found Enla’s more honest than most. She replied, “I’d like him back in one piece, and for it not to disrupt our journey too badly. Is it likely to?”

The woman shook her head again, “I’ll be dead or gone if it doesn’t work out.”

Arya grinned, “Well, best of luck to you then. It would be a shame for me to lose such a skilled sparring partner.” She raised her cup to the other woman and tried not to imagine what Jon didn’t see coming. 

They sent scouts out toward the Thenn, hoping to trade goods for promises that they would remain unmolested as they continued north into the Lands of Always Winter. Jon led the party. A day later, Enla disappeared from the camp. When the other scouts returned five days later, successful, but without Jon—he’d disappeared over night, they said—Arya figured that Enla had chosen to take advantage. She also couldn’t help wondering how she’d managed to get Jon quietly away from the others.

Tormund seemed visibly tickled about the idea of Enla succeeding and shared something with Arya over the fire that night that Jon never had: “He had a woman once—not the Dragon Queen—before her,” he’d raised both of his fiery-red brows at Arya as if asking if she’d known. Arya had shaken her head at him. “Hair kissed by fire like mine. Could handle a bow better than most men. Wicked-sharp tongue. She chose him. He felt his black Crow-guilt about it.”

“What happened?” Arya asked. She tried to imagine what Jon happy and in love might look like. She couldn’t. She didn’t think he’d felt entirely happy with Daenerys—general circumstances being what they were at the time. He may have desired her—even loved her, but the fact that she’d turned out to be his aunt—she thought that doomed them from the start.

“Shot through the back by a Crow-boy when we were trying to take The Wall,” Tormund stated, bluntly. Arya’s eyes widened. “She hesitated. Had her bow trained on your brother but held it and the boy got her. He’s held two of his women as they died. Never caught him looking at the Dragon Queen the same’s he looked at Ygritte. That’s more than half the black-guilt round his neck now—thinking he wasn’t true to either of them or any vow he ever made before. Be good for him to let that go.”

Arya nodded thoughtfully, hoping, for her brother’s sake that he could find his way out of the cold dark of loss and angry fires of blame into some more temperate contentment.

They continued north and three days later, one horse bearing two riders and a line of game—evidence of fruitful hunting—rode into the encampment. Arya’s left eyebrow quirked as she watched Enla dismount first and stride off purposefully with the game while Jon dismounted more slowly and began tending to the horse. He appeared well-enough from a distance. 

They didn’t have any opportunity to speak until he sat down alongside her at the fire that night for the evening meal. Arya questioned, “Good hunting?” 

He glanced sidelong at her, chewing, before responding, “Aye. Fair enough.” He offered nothing further and she asked nothing more, but as Arya banked the fire before turning in, Enla appeared, took Jon’s hand in hers, pulled him to his feet, and led him away to her furs. Arya smiled into the embers. 

~~~~~~~

Several moons into their journey, as they made camp for the night in the sheltering mouth of an ice cavern, Jon pulled Arya aside requesting, “Don’t issue your usual challenge tonight.”

Arya lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Jon. She and Enla nearly always sparred once the fires were started to entertain the others while they waited for supper. Before she could answer, Enla appeared at Jon’s side. “He’s asked you not to spar with me, hasn’t he?” she said casting a censorious eye at Jon. 

“He has,” Arya confirmed. Jon’s brooding eyes met Enla’s defiant ones and Arya watched them both curiously. 

“She should know why at least,” Jon insisted, after what seemed to be an unspoken battle of pursed lips, clenched jaws, and wrinkled brows: “You don’t tell her, I will.”

“Know what?” Arya asked, hoping to break the inexplicable tension between them.

Exasperated, Enla untied the belt of her outer furs and then unbuckled her inner jacket as well. The climate made it unpleasant to undress to any degree for longer than was absolutely necessary and it had been at least two moons since it had been comfortable to shed more than their outer-layer of furs, even when sparring. Gazing at her uncovered now, Arya could see that Enla’s lower belly had begun to swell with child. Arya’s flabbergasted eyes swung from Enla’s belly to Jon’s eyes—Enla’s eyes back to Jon’s face. He looked simultaneously abashed, wary, and proud. Enla grumbled, “Sometimes he still thinks like a southerner—that because he’s put a babe in me he can control how I live. He gets an opinion,” she allowed, “and I’ve considered it, but he doesn’t get to dictate terms. He wants me to go back south without the rest of you. I won’t.”

Arya eyed her brother mutely. Meeting Enla’s mutinous gaze she asked, “Could I speak with my brother privately?” The other woman nodded her assent as she rewrapped and refastened, her lips tight, then marched off to the fires to assist with supper. 

Arya grabbed a torch and dragged Jon farther into the depths of the cavern, away from the rest of their party. Backs pressed against the cavern wall, Arya sat, dragging Jon down alongside her. “She’s right, you know. It _is_ her choice.” Jon opened his mouth to reply, but she hurried on, “You had choices too and you chose to…” Arya tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, “_keep your sword warm_ at night.” Jon’s face turned crimson. “If you weren’t concerned then, and she thinks she can handle herself now, who are you to stand in her way?”

“But the child…” he mumbled.

“Oh, you were right to tell me about that. I’ll make allowances when we spar. But the child goes where Enla does. She chooses to go with you and take the risks that accompany that choice.” Arya watched him brood and a new thought crossed her mind. “Or have you changed your mind? Is she…is _this_ even something you want?”

Jon couldn’t meet her eyes, but he nodded, swallowing. Arya felt relief flood through her. She liked Enla and thought she’d been good for Jon. He explained, “Aye. I want it. A family. Was ashamed all my life about being Father’s bastard. Thought the best place for me was the Night’s Watch where my existing couldn’t hurt anyone. Your mother made it plain that’s all I was from the beginning—Father’s betrayal made flesh. I wasn’t—but she didn’t know that,” Jon conceded generously, as Arya opened her mouth to interject. Arya closed her lips and Jon continued, “Came to realize these past years that Father’s plan all along was to prevent me having children—keep the Seven Kingdoms at peace by discontinuing the Targaryen line. If I pledged myself to the Watch, he knew he’d instilled enough honor and guilt in me to guarantee I’d abide by the vows.” Jon snorted. “I know you think Father was without fault. But he was just a man, same as any. He didn’t tell me who I was. Maybe it was to protect me. Maybe it was to preserve the peace. But regardless, I made decisions out of ignorance that I might have made differently if I’d known the truth. Decisions that hurt more than just me in the end.”

Arya rested her head against Jon’s shoulder and took his hand in hers. Jon glanced sideways at the top of her head. Arya offered, “I don’t think he was faultless. I think he was trapped inside so many contradictory loves and obligations that he tried to find the path that hurt the fewest. I’m sorry the path he chose hurt you. I’m sorry Mother couldn’t ever see past who she thought you were and just see _you_. But I’m not sorry that I got to grow up with you as my brother. Has anyone else ever…” Arya paused, knowing this question was a risk, “Did Ygritte see you?”

Jon pulled back a little, surprised, studying her. “Tormund tell you about her?”

Arya nodded. Jon seemed lost in thought for a time before he replied, “Aye. She saw me. Clearer than I saw myself. I loved her. And I still I betrayed her for something bigger than both of us.”

“And Daenerys?” Arya asked, softly.

“I needed her and she needed me and then we needed each other and I betrayed her too. I owed her, but I owed you, and Sansa, and Bran, and the Free Folk, and the North and then I saw what she was doing and I knew I owed her people—our people—my people, too. Duty is the death of love. Love is the death of duty."

The sudden ferocity with which he’d spoken his last words startled her. He’d uttered them with anger and devoid of hope, but like a mantra—the same way she’d uttered her list of names. 

“I think you’re wrong,” she offered, after a few moments. “I know Death. Love and duty are two of its’ faces, but they aren’t incompatible. Love embraces duty. Duty embraces love.”

Jon shook his head. Voice gravelly, he replied, “Hasn’t in my experience, Arya.”

“Wrong again. Your Queen saw what we were up against when she flew beyond the wall with her dragons and she loved the world of men enough to know it was her duty to stand with us. It was your duty to go south and fight for her as you’d sworn to do, but you loved Westeros enough to recognize that she wasn’t what was best for it. Duty is love and love is duty. You would have made a great King, Jon, but you’ll make a wonderful father. You don’t owe anything to anyone anymore. You’re not sworn to anything bigger than yourself. Just stop bashing yourself over the head with guilt about the past and live in the present.”

Jon stared at her. Chagrined he grunted, “Thought Sansa was supposed to be the clever sister.”

Arya elbowed him—hard—in the side. He chuckled as they wrestled, briefly, poking and grabbing at one another.

Eventually their play ceased and Jon sighed, “What if it all goes bad?”

_That_ she understood. Arya gripped his arm sympathetically, “Just do what you can. Support her being who she is. You always managed that with me.” 

“That how you and Gendry work?” he asked. 

Arya shrugged, “I’m me. He’s him. We’re us. Simple enough, really.” 

Rueful, Jon muttered as if speaking to the gods, “Aye. ‘Simple enough’ she says.” They sat together in silence for a while before he reached over and squeezed her knee, then rose and made his way back to the fire. 

When Enla conceded the match to Arya as they sparred after the meal had concluded, Arya muttered in her ear: “You wanted to give him a reason. He has one now. Respect that.” 

The other woman nodded once in terse agreement.

~~~~~~~

Gendry and Tytha stood in the grounds of an empty farmstead near Summerhall. They could see Old Arlen’s wheelhouse making its way down the lane, plodding slowly ahead of a couple of wagons. 

“Ready for this, Snowsquall?” Gendry asked, shading his eyes against the sun as he looked out towards the oncoming caravan. 

“Yes,” she said, bouncing a little on her toes, nervous and eager. Gendry, for all his outward calm, was experiencing some dread about this meeting. How awkward was it going to be to meet—again—the woman he’d fathered this child with…and her husband? Knowing that he’d been responsible for instigating the death of that husband’s firstborn while his own firstborn stood beside him: tall, beautiful and healthy. Any feeling he’d once had for Galla might be long washed away under many bridges, but he couldn’t help the churning in his belly as the wagons got closer. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. But then he looked at Tytha and knew he’d had to. He couldn’t have sent her with someone else. 

As the wagons drew into the shelter of the buildings, a boy no more than two years younger than Tytha threw himself off the second wagon and raced across the packed earth to throw his arms around her, nearly knocking her off-balance. Gendry smiled as he watched Tytha hug the boy tightly, her face aglow as her own smile spread from one ear to the other. Eventually she turned the boy towards Gendry saying, “Father, this is my brother Axen.”

Gendry inclined his head toward the boy with a grin, “Good to meet you, Axen. Tytha’s shared a lot of stories about you. Hope you’ll like your new home.”

The boy’s eyes widened as he cast his eyes about the farmstead and took in the appearance of the Lord, but he grinned enthusiastically back, piping, “Thank you, milord.”

The wagons had pulled to a stop. Gendry approached the first, driven by a man he’d never met. “Maegor Baelryn? I’m Lord Baratheon.”

The man stayed seated on his wagon, sizing Gendry up. Gendry did the same. He was a spare man, wiry but tough, bearded and balding. After an uncomfortable minute of silent appraisal, the man nodded curtly and said, “The girl has the look of you, that’s certain. We’re grateful, milord, for your generosity, but I can’t help wondering what made you offer it.” He added ominously, “Or in what way I’ll find myself indebted to you going forward.” The woman who’d been driving the second wagon appeared at Maegor’s side, hands fiddling nervously in her skirts as she cast agitated glances between her husband and Gendry. 

Gendry could see plainly that despite years, work, and many children she was still lovely to look at, but he kept his own eyes trained on her husband. He understood the power imbalance that lay between himself and the pair before him. He didn’t intend to imply any sort of obligation on their part where he was concerned and he definitely didn’t want to cause any jealousy or inadvertent offense. Gesturing to Tytha he explained, “When Old Arlen shared your circumstances with Tytha, she wanted to help the rest of her family. She’s in a position to do so. All I’ve done is enable her to make good on that impulse. You owe her, not me.” Maegor accepted his words with a jerk of his chin. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Galla open her arm towards Tytha, beckoning her closer. Tytha ran for her, engulfing her in a hug that threatened to knock the woman backwards into the wagon. They were nearly the same height—shared the same build. Maegor cleared his throat. Tytha looked up at him uncertainly from inside her mother’s arms. “I had my doubts about how you’d turn out,” Maegor’s voice was dubious and gruff, “But mayhaps,” his tone became apologetic, “I was…blind…to some things myself.”

Gendry helped them unload the wagons. He found himself handing Galla a basket of linens from the wagon-bed. The woman’s hand grazed his and their eyes met. “Is she alright?” Galla asked, her voice quiet and unsure, “Do you know if…?” 

Gendry understood the question she didn’t want to ask. She may not have suspected anything when Tytha lived with her, but the circumstances of Hos’s death must have put questions into her mind. He could offer her some relief on that score, “She’s very well, now. She said he threatened and menaced her—no more.” Galla’s shoulders relaxed. Gendry continued, “She’s smart and fearless. She’s thoughtful and works hard, and I’m grateful to have her. I’d like to thank you for that.”

Galla flushed, and she smiled genuinely at him before a dispute between two of her toddlers erupted and she dashed off.


	2. Marching Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya returns to Storm's End from beyond-the-wall, but the unexpected lurks in the mountains of the Dornish Marches.

Arya had sent ravens from Antler River and King’s Landing. She was due to arrive home any day and Gendry felt like he was counting every second, constantly listening for her footfall, after nearly fourteen moons apart. She’d been gone twice as long as she’d expected, but there had been good reasons for her to stay as long as she had. The expedition had spent nearly ten moons trekking around the Lands of Always Winter, mapping as much as they could. They’d discovered swirling symbols embedded in the landscape that provoked dread in the Wildlings—and in Jon Snow. They suggested a link to the ones constructed from mutilated bodies as the White Walkers marched south. Following them, they’d found more than eighty of (presumably Craster’s) infant and young boys—encased in ice, but miraculously still alive. They’d sought out The Children for help in freeing, evaluating, and caring for the Ice Boys before necessity dictated that they return. As it was, Jon’s son—Ben—was born strong and healthy two weeks out from Antler River, and Gendry had understood Arya wanting to stay for some time after they’d regained the settlement. Then she’d needed to apprise Bran’s advisors of their adventures on her way south, and he had understood that too. He always understood. But that didn’t mean he missed her any less. 

When he found her in his dreams at night, he wallowed in the pleasure of it. This particular night, the dream was especially vivid. He’d felt a breeze on his neck like her breath, which made him shiver, despite the warmth of the night. He’d also caught the scent of her wafting through the dream. And then he’d felt her hands working him, making him catch his breath, his hips thrusting upwards, and he’d realized, quite suddenly, that the hands weren’t imaginary. Someone who wasn’t him had hold of his cock under the blankets and was pumping leisurely. He startled awake, latching his hands over the ones round his cock, strangling their movements. Arya was leering at him in the moonlight, sitting naked on the bed beside him, “You sighed my name when I took hold of you. Been relying on your own hands for too long then, I take it.” He nodded at her, mesmerized, as she continued stroking him. Gazing into each other’s eyes they offered one another a wordless welcome before she pulled back the covers, leaned over, and took him into her mouth. He’d gasped as her lips engulfed him. He’d reached out for her, running his fingers through her hair as she bobbed her mouth along his length. When he’d tugged a little too hard, she pulled back completely, her hands continuing to caress him. She’d smiled up at him lazily. He whispered, “Come here,” and caught her ankle, pulling her body over his and burying his face between her legs. She’d jerked as he’d done so before surrendering and stretching out over him so they could pleasure each other with their mouths simultaneously. She’d peaked quickly, the flood of her honey on his lips making him hum and tongue her more forcefully. She was breathing hard against his cock, grinding herself back against his mouth, into the sensation. At the moment she peaked again, he rolled her off of him, onto her back and lunged, lifting her one leg and burying himself deeply, stifling her moan with his lips as he did so. She kept murmuring the word “yes” over and over and over again and he could feel her clenching around him. He rode her, their hands laced together, either side of her head, until her ‘yeses’ became ‘nows’ and ‘pleases’ and his stones tightened. He groaned, “As milady commands,” and shuddered against her. Her hands came to caress his lower back as his movements slowed. They kissed long, and lovingly, tongues tangling and hands exploring until she felt him rise again, still inside her, and they rode the night together once more. 

~~~~~~~

One afternoon, a few moons after resuming her life at Storm’s End, Tytha appeared in Arya’s apartments. Arya maintained them as a private workspace, crowded with her maps and souvenirs from her travels. She found the fact that these rooms were across the corridor from the Lord’s apartments convenient, and being only one level away from the Maester and his ravens a bonus. Arya looked up now from the scroll she’d been reading, announcing, “Sansa’s had another boy and all’s well. They’ve called him Robb.” 

“After your brother?” Tytha asked. Arya nodded. “Speaking of babies,” Tytha began, uncertainly, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. I’m going to visit Mama when she has her sixth—to help her out for a bit and I thought…well…maybe there’s something she could be doing not to have any more?” 

Arya cleared her throat. She’d been surprised when Gendry told her that he and Tytha had moved Galla’s family to the Stormlands, but she couldn’t fault their reasons. She’d intended to warn off Hos’s friends; she hadn’t intended to cause the family hardship in managing their livelihood. “There are herbs—a tea—that women can take to keep a baby from growing or get rid of one if it’s early enough. Some men don’t approve of it. Some women don’t either. And not everyone has the means of acquiring it.” 

“If I wanted to get some…to take to Mama…could you help me with that?” 

Arya thought instantly of the scrollwork box just across the corridor. She took Tytha’s hands in her own, clarifying, “You’re certain you’re only asking for your mother? Not for yourself?” Tytha looked shocked. Arya hadn’t thought so, but the girl _was_ getting older, “It would be all right if you were—I’d still help.” 

Tytha shook her head. “I’m not interested in boys. Or having a husband. I don’t need one. I don’t think I want any children myself. I like them well enough in small doses but not to care for all the time—as Fyffe likes to. I like helping Father with business. I’ve got a head for figures. He has me managing more and more of the household now.”

Arya had felt nothing but relief when Gendry had advised her of that plan. She’d avoided adding the portfolios of Ladyhood to her own by heading north when she did. It was one of the things she knew was expected by the stewards and advisors, but with her continued absence, Gendry had found a solution that would suit them all. In his private study off the Round Hall one afternoon, she’d expressed her gratitude in a way they both found extremely gratifying. 

“I said much the same thing, once, to my father. Nobody’s going to make you wed anyone if you don’t want to. And I know your Father appreciates having your help. He likes working with you.” Tytha had flushed, happy. 

~~~~~~~

Fyffe’s mission to educate the orphans of Storm’s End had blossomed into a project the likes of which Westeros had never seen. As her cousins—the children of her uncle Eon and his wife Jeyne grew—Fyffe concluded that all children in Storm’s End should have the advantage of such basic skills as reading, writing, and sums—whether they were to be apprenticed to a trade or work a farm or take up soldiering—regardless of gender or parentage. She’d opened free day-schools that ran three days a week in rotation throughout each borough of Storm’s End, staffed by Septas and Maesters. Older and unapprenticed children attended in the afternoons, while younger ones attended in the mornings. Her scheme was a success in the eyes of most of the smallfolk—it allowed for the children to learn useful skills, kept them out of mischief, and still provided ample time for older children to be useful at home. When a raven arrived from Grand Maester Samwell Tarly in King’s Landing asking her to appear before King Bran’s small council and present her initiative to them, she bounded into the Round Hall for the evening meal clutching the scroll and vibrating with excitement. 

“Can I go, Papa, please?” she’d begged Gendry. 

“Won’t deny the wishes of my king, Wildfire,” he’d replied, “But I can’t take you. There’s trouble brewing in the Red Mountains—whether it’s Dorne testing my resolve along the border or merely disenfranchised unhappy men, it’s not clear—but I’m going to have to call banners to deal with it.” He glowered. There’d been peace for nearly nine years and despite the increasing quality of living conditions and prosperity throughout Westeros, apparently some were spoiling for a fight after too much time at rest. 

“If it is Dorne, perhaps that could be resolved through Bran, if you came with us?” Arya suggested. She shrugged, “And if it’s not, we’ll come back and deal with it ourselves.”

“I don’t want to go running to your brother. Makes it look like I can’t fight my own battles.” He hadn’t needed to, yet, as the Lord of Storm’s End. This would be the first time he’d needed to summon men for anything more dangerous than clean-up after a particularly violent storm or a shipwreck or raiders from across the Narrow Sea—if you didn’t count that first time when he’d made his way to what turned out to be Bran’s kingmaking. 

“Then I’ll weather that blow. Surely I’ve got enough credit to withstand it: Hero of Winterfell, Bringer of the Dawn, Circumnavigator of the Globe, Harbinger of Spring in the Lands of Always Winter. You muster whoever you need, ready to march, and I’ll take the girls with me,” Arya looked them over, “They’re little older than Sansa and I were when Father took us to King’s Landing—not that I’d anticipate anything similar,” she added hastily, catching Gendry’s sudden stillness beside her. She laid her hand over his, squeezing gently. He met her eyes in silent conversation before nodding in agreement. 

“You’ll have to take ladies with you. Make this a proper visit.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “I’ll take the Farring, Peasebury, Swann and Wylde girls, then. Those four should be more than enough along with our two. The giggling alone!” She threw up her hands in mock horror.

~~~~~~~ 

There _had_ been an awful lot of giggling along the road to King’s Landing. Arya delegated most of it to Septa Alynne’s supervision, preferring to liaise with the commander of their guard. They’d arrived without incident and the following evening, at a welcoming reception, Arya felt surprisingly at ease watching the girls make new friends and dance, as she sat conversing with Ser Davos and Ser Brienne. 

“Lady Fyffe’s a very pretty girl,” Davos remarked, “Always did look overmuch like her Da, but it’s worked in her favour.”

Arya smiled, “And she knows it. But she’s kind and generous and vivacious—it hides her vanity well.”

“You’d mentioned once that Lady Tytha might wish to squire?” Brienne inquired, dubiously, as she watched the young girl giggling with her friends. 

“It was a thought then. She still loves riding and shooting, but she’s found a new purpose now. She loves working with Gendry, managing. I’m glad of it—stewardship and diplomacy: not my style at all.” Ser Brienne shot Arya a sympathetic look and the two women each raised a glass to the other. 

~~~~~~~

They’d been in King’s Landing for a moon’s turn when a raven came from Gendry stating that it had become very clear that Dorne was not the problem and he was leaving immediately to quell the unrest that threatened to spill out of the mountains. Arya had gone to Bran at once, asking permission to leave. With approval, she gathered the girls and their ladies together and set out for Storm’s End only a day later. But summer storms could be vicious and their party was beset by flooding that washed out bridges, and forced them to detour. By the time they reached Storm’s End, Gendry’s men had been gone close to three-weeks and Arya despaired of meeting up with them before they were enjoined in any skirmish or battle. But she rode out anyway, with a handful of men, making their way south into the Dornish Marches. 

Riding into Gendry’s encampment, the battle was long over. Several hundred lost men—desperate vagabonds who had massed in the unforgiving mountains—lay dead: the Stormlanders victorious. But after the victory, among the wounded, a nasty summer fever had settled…and spread. “Camp’s closed,” the sentries hailed her, warning, as she approached, “Lord Baratheon ordered no one to enter or leave the camp—to help keep the sickness from spreading.”

Gesturing to her companions to fall back, Arya dismounted her horse and handed it off saying, “Well, seeing as I’m Lady Baratheon, just point me towards his tent and I’ll do my best not to wander off-course.” The two men had glanced at one another significantly, silence lengthening between them. Arya raked them both with her most intimidating stare before one of them stuttered apologetically, “My Lady…My Lord is not well himself. He wouldn’t want us letting you by.”

Arya felt her stomach plummet, landing somewhere below her feet. “Was he injured?” she asked, her tone clipped, perfectly business-like. 

“No, my lady. Just caught the shivers’n’shakes like the rest of ‘em. Two nights ago. Maester’s been with him ever since.” Watching her unmoving face, the sentry elaborated, “Starts that way, you see, then they cramp up in their guts and all seven hells breaks loose. Most can’t eat—nothing stays down. And once they start wheezin’ or bleedin’ from the arse…,” the man’s voice faded away. 

Arya stared both of them in the eyes. She pressed one index finger upwards between the spears they’d crossed to prevent her entry. The spears parted, and she marched between them silently, making her way to Gendry’s tent.

Her sudden appearance had flustered the Maester. He’d come with one of the bannermen and, not being personally acquainted with either the Lord or Lady of Storm’s End previously, hadn’t known her. As he fell about trying to explain why she shouldn’t be there and what he’d been doing to contain the illness, Arya went swiftly to Gendry’s bedside to examine him herself. His face was grey—where it wasn’t reddened by fever--and his clothing and blankets were drenched with sweat. She put her hand against his forehead. He startled in his sleep, shrinking away from her touch. Arya’s lips pressed themselves into a firm line. 

“You shouldn’t touch him, my Lady!” the Maester interjected reprovingly. The eyes that met his burned hotter than the fever itself and her expression was colder than ice. The Maester stepped back. Her voice cold, Arya said, “There’s snow on the upper slopes. Send someone to haul back as much of it as they can and then you can see to the others. I’ll see to him.” She turned her back on him, and the Maester hurried away. 

She’d undressed him, and washed him with cool water, his teeth chattering inside his skull the entire time. He didn’t wake. She dripped boiled water and feverbreak tea down his throat—his lips were parched and dry. When a wagon came, filled with snow, she’d packed it around him in the bed herself. She remembered Old Nan’s tales of a fever that ran through Winterfell during her father’s boyhood when they’d done exactly this to bring temperatures down. She sat beside him for hours, holding his hand and wiping his face.

In all the years they’d known each other, she’d watched or helped him evade death at least a half-dozen times. Sometime late the following night, when the night was very dark and full of terrors, his breathing got rapid and shallow, rattling in his chest. Arya found herself scolding him aloud: “This is stupid. It’s bloody stupid. You survive the Long Night and the dead and the white walkers. You ran yourself into the ground going for help north of The Wall. You couldn’t swim and you rowed for days not knowing where you were headed. You survive the damned gold cloaks and bloody butchers of Harrenhal, Stannis Baratheon’s iron-will, and the fucking Red Woman’s blood magic just to die in a gods-damned mountain pass from a ruddy fever? That’s fucking stupid, Gendry. Don’t you fucking do it!” She had tears in her eyes and was gripping his hand tightly between both of hers, as if she could somehow tether him inside his body. He wheezed and choked. His eyes suddenly opened and met hers, glistening and hazy with fever before they’d looked past her, over her shoulder—recognition sparking. A chill ran down Arya’s spine. She glanced quickly behind her to reassure herself that no one was there. No one was. She turned her eyes back to him and Gendry’s broken voice rasped, “Not today.” It was all he could manage. His eyes closed. His breathing slowly began to ease, and the shudders that wracked his body stilled. Arya felt sick and her heart nearly stopped. Running her hands nervously over him, she could feel the fever breaking. Tears running down her cheeks, she climbed into the bed next to him, wrapping her arms around him and wept into his shoulder with exhausted relief.

~~~~~~~

Arya was disgusted with herself. All she could think about since Gendry began to recover was how, if she’d lost him, she wouldn’t have any of him left. It was ridiculous. She had Tytha and Fyffe and they were his—both looked so much like him that strangers commented on how blessed by the gods Gendry must feel to be so confident in his own progeny. They each exhibited some of his mannerisms and patterns of speech as well. He’d never be gone with them in the world. But suddenly, and entirely unexpectedly, Arya found herself thinking that wasn’t enough.

He was her reason. The girls were getting older and soon enough they’d have their own lives like her siblings did. All of her pack would always matter, but they mattered…differently…now. If he’d died…

She didn’t share any of this with him—it was all so new and uncertain inside her. She’d gotten him home to Storm’s End, made certain the kitchens would feed him up well, and vented her frustrating, ridiculous feelings in the training grounds. “You can’t just go have a bloody baby. You’d be its _mother_. You’ve never wanted that. Mothers don’t go away like you do. Mothers _stay_. Mothers _guide_. Mothers bloody _mother_. _That’s not you_.” The refrain clattered itself about in her brain but she kept thinking about Enla’s stoic perseverance as they’d travelled the Lands of Always Winter. How the other woman hadn’t let anything slow or stop her until the very moment she’d squatted against a tree and, bolstered by Jon and herself, delivered the baby into Jon’s ready arms. She’d rested only a few hours before insisting they continue, baby Ben wrapped snuggly inside her furs as she trudged south. Maybe there _were_ other ways to be a mother.

In spite of these muddled thoughts, she kept dosing herself with moon tea and—once she was certain he was well enough—spent several nights thanking him tenderly with her body for pulling through. She thought maybe it was just need of him making her want—but the thoughts didn’t go away. Arya realized that she would have to—at least until she decided what it was she really wanted. This wasn’t the sort of thing she should decide in haste after all these years. She wondered idly what her own Nymeria had done—if the pack she’d found her with once had ever grown larger. 

By the time Gendry had fully recovered, Arya had planned an expedition to the Shivering Seas and around the north coast of Essos. When he kissed her goodbye at the foot of the gangway, she’d instructed him, “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. I need you to be here when I come back.” 

“Goes both ways, milady,” Gendry rejoined, hugging her close. She’d been different since he’d been ill. Preoccupied. He suspected, based on what the Maesters and his men had told him, that he’d scared her very badly and she was running away. She did that. But he’d be here when she came back. He’d promised her before her first voyage, again as they’d wed, and again, before her second voyage. And now he’d looked Death straight in the eye again and refused to go. He had no intention of breaking his word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more multi-chapter part to this series. Again, I hope to post chapter updates to it weekly.  
Thank you to everyone who has been so encouraging and enthusiastic about this series.


End file.
